Disassociated Thoughts of the Witching Hour

Mirrors go black when you close your eyes; when you blink,
Just when you think
You see clearly,
Your body moves so distantly,
Without even taking a step,
And your mind, outside reality's doorstep,
Where you become an onlooker,
Thoughts that make you sober.
Figuring out what reality even is, who you are, and who you are within it,
As you lay motionless, music quietly playing, unconsensually basking in it.
These thoughts aren't hurting you,
And arn't necessarily unwelcome or unwanted by you,
But life would be so much easier without them,
Especially if you could choose when they appear, or even, not to have them.
...But then again, life would be so much more normal, and un-unique without them.
Feelings given by memories of past events, played back like aesthetics,
Not pinpointed moments, but different experiences, from the things in life that more so, sticks.
The complex feelings from them, and of images conjured up in the mind of places never been,
Places that might not even be real, and just a mishmash of subconscious thoughts, experiences, and places been.
So complex are these feelings, so fluid, flowing into one another, like an almost perfectly rolled up Play-Doh ball,
Together and a part of each other, but still seperate of themselves and all....
It's a full-body experience on a spiritual level, stemming from the core of the being,
The solor plexus, but somehow also deeper (vertically) in the torso but in the same place, and from the mind's third eye seeing.
The collective, overall emotions, and feelings like an immersive, room of art...
Wouldn't that be neat? An exhibit of art,
Where an artist builds, colors, and decorates different rooms,
Kitchens, living rooms, restrooms, basments, attics, game rooms, bedrooms, panic rooms, other rooms,
As if they were to live in them, and others as if they were from different stories or fantasy/Sci-Fi lands,
Or several rooms, made by different artists' hands.
They say the soul lives in the brain,
And yes, that does make sense, but then again,
When I think of my being, my core, my soul, it's an all over feeling,
That is seeming,
In an area, it does anchor,
To spiral out of my solar plexus/stomach area,
Like the unfurling petals of a rainbow daffodil,
Surrounded by that beautiful golden yellow, like a sunlight spill.
Like a soft, cotton dress with a wavy, crinkly hem,
But I simultaneously think of them,
Like golden-amber, glowing, energy strings,
Like a combination of spiritually warm energy waves and harp strings,
Flowing from taut to loose and back again,
The energy flowing from its domain.
It's weird the thoughts that flow across the brain,
As you lie there in the witching hour, waiting to fall asleep again.